Ashes
by KiraSakura
Summary: .x. whilst inside the stone walls an Antivan tune drifts afloat, the mingled scent of flowers and leather keeping their love alive .x. male!Grey Warden/Zevran .x. drabble .x.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own Dragon Age, it belongs to BioWare.

**Warnings:** None I can think of.

**Author's Notes: **Because I'm already missing my Alim Surana. D: He was the best out of all my Grey Wardens. Beta'd by the ever awesome Ame.

* * *

It has been many years since he last stood here. Winters have come and gone, along with plagues, epidemics, droughts and floods. People have died and people have cried, and wars and battles have scarred the land. There has been peace, though, soft and lulling, enchanting in its promise of calm. But it is as though this place hasn't been touched by the poisons of living – the aftermath of the Blight hasn't taken families and tainted those who remain, the cries of children seeking their parents after an attack of Darkspawn are silent, and the smell of death doesn't pollute the air.

Instead there is the soft, subtle scent of the dried petals of Andraste's Grace that Leliana scattered over the tomb and around the crypt, and the dark, unseeing eyes of the paintings that Sten placed on the carved walls watch, guarding their fallen ward.

Indeed, nothing has changed within, and Alistair smiles, the wrinkles that line his lips taut and shaking. He has grown old, married, sired children and been blessed with grandchildren. His wife has passed with the last plague, his oldest son killed in battle, his youngest grandchild a cripple after falling down the stairs of the palace. Yet, despite these woes, this place is peaceful and while the air is a tad stale, and the corners slightly dusty, time has simply failed to exist.

Alistair stumbles forth, his hands, gnarled with age and useless with arthritis, gripping his walking cane, and his feet shuffling against the stone floor. He can feel the chill of the stones seeping up into his silken shoes, curling around his aching bones, and settling in his joints. It's almost as though a part of him has returned, one that he lost when his greatest friend gave his life for a world that wouldn't have been so kind.

"It's been a while." He rasps into the chill, eyes watching as the shadows that have watched the Grey Warden's body sliver away. Sunlight from the tomb's opening sheds light upon the sarcophagus, and Alistair pauses. The lid, made from white marble and carved with symbols of prosperity and peace, has been moved to the side and not fully sealed. The air is suddenly colder as fear grips his heart, and he calls to the Grey Warden that waits for him at the entrance.

But the man assures him that no one has entered, leaving Alistair to wonder just how old and senile he really is. Still, he creeps forward, eyeing the resting place of a man he respected and cared for, eyes looking to the dusty floor.

And, indeed, there are footprints left behind of whoever last entered, and Alistair fears. His friend does not to deserve to have his resting place ruined, or looted, and he hurries to the side of his friend's last bed.

Pushing aside the lid, as far as he can manage with the last of the strength in his wary bones, he notices the scorch marks first, licking up the sides and twisting, dark and sinful along the white of the stone.

Maker, someone has set the body ablaze, and he almost despairs. But the sight of a pair of gloves resting upon the ashes gives him pause, and he remembers, somewhere far back when he was young and sitting at the camp's fire, sipping at the weak stew prepared for them by Wynne, the sight of Zevran's hands, deft and agile, slipping them on.

A glittering earring lies on the gloves, one that Alistair remembers his friend wearing with pride, and suddenly his fears rush from his him with his latest exhale of air. His body is left shaking with relief, for he believes he understands.

Perhaps Zevran had his children, if he had anything, return his ashes and bones to his love's resting place, or perhaps he merely stopped to visit one night and thought that the Ferelden funeral was not proper for his Grey Warden.

Maybe he lay in the stone alive and set himself ablaze next to the corpse of his beloved, the gloves and earring falling to rest on both.

Either way, Alistair knows that they have joined in the way they would have wished, and his fear is abated. He leaves the tomb, and murmurs to his guide that he wishes for the room to completely sealed – this is the last time he will visit, and the one person that he waited for, the one he knew would come one last time, has been.

Alistair feels his duty is finally done, and the guilt of not taking the final blow lifts from his shoulders, while inside the stone walls an Antivan tune drifts afloat with the mingled scent of flowers and leather.


End file.
